


Indulgences

by Nenalata



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Dirty Jokes, F/M, Fenris/Orana can easily be blinked away if you don't like it, Fruit, Healing, Implied Fenris/Orana, Maybe Someday that is, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Or blinked into existence if you do, Singing, Slavery Memories, Where! Are! My! Bushy! Bearded! Hawkes!, you cowards
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-08
Updated: 2019-04-08
Packaged: 2020-01-06 17:25:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18392963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nenalata/pseuds/Nenalata
Summary: Orana had never meant to avoid Fenris. It had just happened on its own.





	Indulgences

Orana had never meant to avoid Fenris. It had just happened on its own.

Or, at least, that was what Orana told herself. In her defense—not that she’d ever needed to defend herself before—she’d never been able to interact with any of the libertari, and certainly not escaped slaves, and certainly not anyone who murdered her mistress, eyes and markings blazing, coated in blood and fury in every line of his body…

So. No. Orana couldn’t say she’d had much opportunity to have a chat with the man.

Which was silly, because he came to Master Hawke’s estate so often. Almost as often as the master’s beautiful, approachable, flirty, friendly lover who had made Orana feel at home right away by bringing her the spices needed for Papa’s best stew recipe, spices she couldn’t find in the market even though she’d tried so hard…How had she known? Known what they were, and where to get them, and that Orana would appreciate them so much she couldn’t help sobbing into the woman’s arms?

Isabela, as Orana had managed to learn to call her, was in the parlor right now with Master Hawke. Orana liked to practice lute in there with them there—well, with Isabela there. It made dealing with the master’s presence easier and easier. Fortunately, Fenris usually didn’t come calling when Isabela was at the estate, because, Master Hawke said, Maker knew he got enough come-ons when the three of them were in the middle of blighted nowhere, and probably wouldn’t be able to resist two suave individuals such as themselves when there was a large bed close at hand.

Orana hadn’t been supposed to hear that. But hear it she did.

And now Orana was hearing more things that she didn’t expect, which was Fenris’s voice in the parlor she was approaching with a tray of fruit and her lute. Laughing, talking, teasing. And Isabela and the master joining in.

Orana hesitated—not because Fenris was there, of course not—because maybe this time Fenris  _ had  _ been unable to resist, and  _ now _ they were—

“Ooh, is that you, sweet thing?” Orana froze, one hand on the tray, one hand on the lute’s neck. “Come in, come in! I have a wonderful new tune for you.”

Well, no hiding now. Orana’s feet carried her with the practiced movement of dutifully suppressed unwillingness. Isabela, reposed on the master’s lap with her bare feet propped up on the recliner, beamed at her. Orana offered a shy smile back.

“It’s a  _ dirty _ tune,” Master Hawke whispered obviously, eyes gleaming. “We’re going to  _ scandalize  _ my mother if she walks in.” Orana couldn’t help smiling broader, but she looked away.

Isabela poked Master Hawke’s chin, hidden by his substantial beard. “She could do with a bit of…scandalizing, don’t you think?”

“Maker,  _ please  _ don’t. I’m trying  _ not  _ to think.”

Orana set the tray down on the table in front of the recliner. There was another chair there, just angled towards the couch. Another set of bare feet, streaked with shimmering lines, frozen on the floor. 

“Oh, apples! Don’t you like apples, my sweetly brooding prince?”

Orana and the brooding prince stiffened. Orana would never bet any of her wages, and the temptation had never even occurred to her to risk losing them…but if she  _ were  _ to bet, there was no risk of loss on the odds of Isabela drawing Fenris’s attention away from “brooding” on purpose while Orana was in the room.

“I’ve been known to indulge, yes.”

Orana shuffled away from the table, because she just couldn’t stand his  _ voice _ . It sounded so different here. No harrowing war cries, no hoarseness from shouting at her new master, no enraged shakiness to it. He sounded suspicious and uncomfortable, yes, but it was a social discomfort, not the abused discomfort of—

“Oh? And when have you last  _ indulged _ ?” Master Hawke had joined in the ribbing, which Orana had expected. She began tuning her lute on her favorite cushioned stool by the fireplace. What she didn’t expect was for Fenris to tease back.

“More frequently than you, I’d wager. Either of you.”

Orana’s cheeks flushed, wishing it were due to her proximity to the fire. She finally dared to peek at the scene. Fenris was clearly more comfortable with her out of his line of sight, sprawled in the armchair with his head propped up in one hand, a grin in his voice while the  _ very  _ scandalized-looking couple leaned forward in delight.

“Oh?” Isabela cooed. “ _ Both  _ of us?” She noticed Orana staring and offered her one slow wink.

“Well, we do have tastes more exotic than apples,” Master Hawke agreed. Isabela snorted.

“Then acquaint yourselves with the fruit tonight. Indulge  _ me _ in this.” Fenris threw back the last of his wine and set the glass on the table with a show of dramatic force. The arch of his back revealed a clean line of bare skin. It glittered a little in the lamplight. Orana’s fingers slipped, and a string twanged. 

Three pairs of surprised eyes were now on her, and she plucked nervously at her lute under the scrutiny. But Isabela  _ and  _ the master were looking at her with such casual confidence, and Orana shoved her nervousness down. “I…thought we were going to sing a dirty song tonight,” she stuttered. Then, driven temporarily insane, she added, “Was it going to be about apples?”

Master Hawke’s shout of laughter made the tray tremble on the table, but Fenris looked away. Orana swallowed, sane once more, but she could swear she saw his lips twitch. She heard him clear his throat, at any rate.

“I don’t know any of those,” Isabela admitted, “but we should all write one together! What say you three? Drinking game of the evening? Oh, hush, Devin,” she said to Master Hawke, who looked about to protest, “give the lady the evening off. A little  _ indulgence _ .”

Master Hawke paused, but he had an armful of Isabela, and Orana knew he had a difficult time saying no to her even when it was only an  _ armful _ . “Strike us a tune, Orana!” he cried, and Orana complied.

The rules, according to Isabela, who had obviously just made them up, were that Orana was to play some simple melody, and the rest of them were to take turns making up a bawdy verse before the melody finished. If they hadn’t managed to finish their verse on beat, rhyming or no, then they had to drain their glass. If they didn’t say  _ anything _ , they had to drain someone  _ else’s _ glass.

Orana suspected this last rule was aimed at any pouting members of the party, but Fenris seemed happy to play regardless.

“I’ll start,” Master Hawke said, and Orana played obediently. “Uh…’You’re the apple of my eye, and the apple ‘twixt my thighs, when I reach your sweet, uh, core, then my seed will, uh, shit, orgasm joke!” he rushed as Orana reached her final chord. Orana choked in an effort to keep her laugh contained.

“Oh, kitten,” Isabela wheezed. “You’re certainly going to have to drink for  _ that _ .”

“Drink? I don’t have to drink! I made it on time!”

“Your rhythm left something to be desired,” Fenris contradicted, and Orana had to admire the poor job he did of softening the insult. Which somehow managed to make it sound more insulting. Could Orana do that someday? Tease Master Hawke? She eyed him, where he was sitting up properly on the couch chugging his wine. 

“I can’t believe you insulted my  _ rhythm  _ of all things. Isabela, is my  _ rhythm _ —“

Fenris slapped a hand to his forehead and groaned. “Why must every word always be about  _ sex _ with you two?”

“What an odd question! We were discussing music, sweet thing!”

“Fenris, I want you to liberate yourself in many ways, but one of them is for you to liberate yourself of your leggings and—“

“Hawke.” 

“Look, all I’m saying is when  _ you _ have a wily and willing woman at hand to help you relieve a dry spell of far-too-long, you will be singing euphemistic comments at casual passerby, let alone your friends.”

Fenris glanced her way, remembering Orana’s presence, and she took a second opportunity to welcome madness, let it seize control over her tongue. “You  _ did  _ agree to sing bawdy tunes,” Orana reminded him. “If you need to concede, I’m sure the master will be happy to give you the rest of the bottle. Serah,” she added hastily at Fenris’s incredulous expression. It only made his eyebrows arch higher. 

“A challenge if I’ve ever heard one,” Isabela purred. “Your move, handsome.”

There was a long silence. It felt a lot longer than it probably was. Finally, Fenris snorted. “I will not concede. But I  _ will _ need more wine for this.” He grabbed the bottle and glugged a healthy amount while Orana struck up the song again.

The evening descended into an absolutely depraved session of fruit-based erotic improvised lyrics that would make any brothel madame blush. Maybe. Orana wasn’t familiar with many, and for that she was extremely grateful. But she did know  _ she  _ was beet-red (or apple-red) when Fenris sang, “Your lips are sweet as peaches, and I don’t mean on your face, when I free you from your breeches, my mouth devours your taste.”

He was doing much better than either of his hosts, who were now indeed scandalously drunk. Mistress Amell must have heard the shrieking and wisely retired for the eve. For the sake of Orana’s decency, however, she wished Fenris had been more intoxicated to excuse his singing of such things.

When Isabela and the master had passed out, Orana set aside her lute and began clearing the table of fallen melon rinds and citrus peels.

“Allow me,” Fenris said quietly. He, too, had risen, and his hands were on the berry-splattered tray before she could set aside her cleaning cloth. She followed him to the darkened kitchen in silence. 

He knew where the washbasin was, which didn’t surprise her. But that he knew where the tray went in their many cupboards was another story. Away from the master and his lover, Orana felt even more nervous around him. 

“Are you…well?” She started at the sound of his voice. She hadn’t even realized she’d been staring. Fenris ducked his head, avoiding her eyes. “That is…here. Are you content? You are happy here at the estate?”

“Yes.” The answer came with a readiness that surprised her. “Master Hawke and Mistress Amell are kind. Bodahn and Sandal, too. It was hard at first. I missed my Papa. I still do.”

“Of course you do.” His sympathetic tone was tinged in bitterness, but it appeared even he noticed it. He backtracked. “I…It is hard in the beginning, yes. I had hoped…” She waited, unsure if she should prompt him. But Fenris shook his head and recovered. “Familiarity is easy, no matter its agony. Making a new life is much harder. But you and I are…”

“We’re trying,” Orana finished. For a moment, she feared she’d said something truly terrible, because his shoulders seized up, and his expression went blank. But she recognized that look. She recognized it because she’d seen it in the faces of every slave who came back from a secret revolution meeting. The hope, and the fear. “You’re still trying, too.”

Fenris pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead and closed his eyes. Orana dared a step closer. When he spoke, his quiet voice rumbled somewhere deep in her chest. “You’re doing well. Orana. And I’m sorry. For everything.”

For her enslavement. For Hadriana. For killing Hadriana. For upending her world. For their shared memories. For frightening her then. 

For frightening her even half a year after. For frightening her now.

“You helped me,” she said, daring to put her hand over his. The markings flashed, just for an instant, just long enough to make her tense but briefly enough that she didn’t move. He cracked an eye open, and Orana was startled again by how  _ green  _ it was. Green as hers.

“Thank you.” 

It was a phrase hard for him to say, and she knew it. To another slave it was easy. To a magister it was required. 

But neither of them were slaves, and magisters had no claim on them any longer. And their vulnerabilities were harder to share now.

“Thank you,” Orana replied. They lowered their hands, and she didn’t give his hand a squeeze, because she didn’t think he’d appreciate it. But she hoped he knew she wanted to, if nothing else than for herself.

But he did look at her, green for green, and nod. A quick one, and one alone. And neither of them needed to say anything more, at least not tonight. And that thought of “not tonight,” the realization that there would undoubtedly be more nights like these, sent something bubbling, warm, and terrifying through her.

“Have a good evening. Fenris,” she added after a moment. He ducked his head again.

“The same to you. Orana.”

Fenris didn’t need walking out to the door. And she didn’t offer. And for that, Orana was proud. Of both of them.

  
  
  



End file.
